When we walk in, the familiar bell above the door chimes softly. Asher is behind the counter, focused on something on the screen. He looks up the moment the door closes behind us, eyes flicking first to me, then to Mia.
The studio is tucked into the corner of a quiet side street, a black-brick façade with clean gold lettering that simply reads:“Get Inked”. No neon signs. No flashy graphics. Just the name—and the quiet promise of artistry inside.
Step through the heavy glass door and the space opens into a blend of old-world soul and modern precision. The scent of sandalwood and clean antiseptic lingers in the air—warm, grounding, comforting. Dark hardwood floors stretch beneath your feet, polished to a soft sheen, and the walls are painted a deep, matte charcoal that makes the space feel like a secret.
Framed sketches line the walls—each one a quiet masterwork in black and grey, with occasional accents of deep crimson or gold. Classical anatomy studies hang beside minimalist linework and gothic-inspired motifs, all unmistakably Elijah’s hand. There’s something almost reverent about the way the art is displayed. Not crowded. Not loud. Just... intentional.
The front area features a sleek, modern reception desk made of blackened steel and walnut wood, minimalistic, but striking. Behind it, shelves display Elijah’s custom inks in glass vials like a collection of rare perfume. An espresso machine hums quietly in the corner—because, of course, Elijah wouldn’t settle for bad coffee.
The stations are divided by frosted glass panels with delicate etched designs—roses, blades, sacred geometry—offering privacy without isolation. Each setup is surgical in cleanliness and layout, but softened by subtle personal touches: a leather-bound sketchbook here, a single white rose in a dark glass vase there. Every surface gleams, but nothing feels sterile.
At the back, there’s a large, antique mirror framed in blackened gold, opposite a wall-length shelf stacked with art books, tattoo history volumes, and old leather journals that may or may not hold Elijah’s private concepts. A small record player sits on the shelf, with a neatly arranged stack of vinyls, Music for creating something sacred.
This isn’t just a tattoo studio. It’s a cathedral of ink and skin. And every detail—from the smell to the silence—feels like Elijah:precise, thoughtful, seductive without being performative, and impossibly cool.
As soon as we walk in, Asher is behind the counter, focused on the screen. He glances up the moment the door shuts behind us.
“Hey, how are you ladies?” he greets, warm as always.
“I’m okay. I’m meeting up with Eli. And Miss Mia here wanted to see you,” I say, nodding toward her.
“The boss is finishing up with a client,” he tells me. “Feel free to sit down. Mia, come on—I’ll show you what I’ve worked on for your design.”
“Perfect,” she replies, clearly thrilled.
We're mid-conversation about the tattoo she wants—something floral with delicate linework—when the door to one of the private rooms opens. And out walks a woman who looks like she just stepped off a runway. She’s tall, with long, platinum-blonde hair, legs for days, and barely enough clothing to qualify as a swimsuit cover.
My chest tightens.
It’s irrational—IknowElijah loves me. Iknowhe would never betray me. But logic isn’t louder than the imposter syndrome clawing at my ribs. Not when a woman likethatwalks out ofhisroom.
And then I hear her speak.
“Elijah, darling…” she purrs, dragging the name out like it’s something sweet on her tongue. “Next time, I want you to do my tattoo… right here…” Her fingers run down between her surgically enhanced breasts, slow and deliberate. “And I’ll make it worth your while. Somethingveryspecial, just for that night.”
Time slows.
The room is quiet, suffocating. I don’t need to look at anyone to know they all heard it. All saw it.
I stand, the couch already cold behind me. I take two steps before Elijah’s voice cuts through the silence like a blade.
“Ava, baby girl, where do you think you’re going?”
He knows. Of course he does. He knowsme.
“You’re busy,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even.
“We can talk later.”
“No. No, no,” he hums, already crossing the room toward me. His steps are calm, but the storm behind his eyes is unmistakable. “Asher will see your design.My girlfriendand I have plans. Right, babe?”
I nod, but before I can speak, his eyes flick to the woman still standing there like she owns the room.
“Oh, and Sandra? From now on, any piercing, tattoo, or whatever you want fromthisstudio will be handled by Asher.”
Her expression falters. “But Eli, you’remytattoo artist—”
“Iwasyour tattoo artist,” he says, voice low, sharp, controlled. “Until you decided it was okay to throw yourself at me like some desperate groupie—in front of my girlfriend. Thesamegirlfriend you saw a picture of ten minutes ago. Youknewwho she was.”
